Marlowe and the Angels
by James H
Summary: A Philip Marlowe story.


Marlowe and the Angels  
  
  
  
  
  
She stepped into Jones' Diner and twenty pairs of male eyes swiveled to meet her, mine included. She had on a red dress that came down just past her knees, leaving her shapely calves exposed and her ample feminine attributes covered, to the chagrin of those present. Her face was a pale oval, with smooth skin, and cool green eyes. Her ruby lips were naturally pouty, and slightly parted to reveal the white of her teeth. A black pill box hat sat atop her shiny black hair.  
  
Every eye in the place took all this in, and every eye saw her move down the aisle to my table. Luckily, I was expecting her, so I was able to keep up my cool exterior. Marlowe, you're as smooth as they come.  
  
I got out of my chair, and pulled out hers. She sat down and placed her clutch purse in her lap.  
  
"It's nice of you to meet me, Mr. Marlowe, I'm Elaine Chasen" she purred. Or maybe she didn't purr; that's just how I heard it.  
  
"The pleasure is mine, Ms. Chasen," I assured her. She saw the way I was looking at her, and placed her hand casually on the tabletop, revealing a wedding ring. Yeah, smooth as they come. I put away the leer, and put on my professional face, polite, attentive, capable.  
  
"I need your help, Mr. Marlowe," she continued. "Two days ago, someone broke into my house, and placed a dead cat on top of the fireplace mantle. A week before that, someone broke in, and scrawled profanities on the walls of the lounge. Things like this have been happening for about a month now, and they seem to be escalating."  
  
"Have you told the police?"  
  
"My husband is against contacting the authorities. He has little faith in them, and honestly, I can't blame him."  
  
"The police are trained professionals, ma'am. They have experience in dealing with things like this. You're best bet is to contact them, and give them the details."  
  
"Are you saying that you have no experience in such matters, Mr. Marlowe?"  
  
"I have experience in almost everything," I said. The leer peeked out again momentarily, just to show it still had some life in it. She blushed, and her face turned hard.  
  
"Do you want this job or not, Mr. Marlowe?"  
  
"Yes, I'll take the job, if you can't be persuaded to go to the police. Twenty-five dollars a day, plus expenses. Will I be expected to live on the premises?"  
  
"I think that would be best," she said. "Your fee shouldn't be a problem."  
  
"I'll come tomorrow morning at eight. I'll want to speak with you and your husband sometime during the day, try and figure out what's going on."  
  
"That can be arranged," she said, and handed me a small perfumed card with her address on it. Going by her address, I would have to agree that my fee wouldn't be a problem for her.  
  
"Thank you very much, Mr. Marlowe. I'll be expecting you in the morning."  
  
"Goodbye, Mrs. Chasen." She stood, holding her purse to her stomach, turned, and left. I didn't bother to keep the leer in check as she walked away. It was a nice view.  
  
Back out on the street, I lit a cigarette, and walked to my heap. I opened the door, got in, and started the engine. The usual cloud of exhaust belched out the back covering my getaway. I maneuvered the beast into the snarled traffic. It was hot, and dirty, and every face from the passing cars seemed to sneer in my direction. The sun burned down like it was shining through a magnifying glass, seemingly aimed at my windshield.  
  
In the rearview mirror, a light blue Buick with miles of chrome mirrored my movements through traffic. I drove at a steady pace, as though I was unaware of the car. When I got to Cahuenga, I sped up and came to a hard stop outside my building, shutting off the engine. I got out quickly and walked at a good clip to the front doors. I grabbed an elevator and went to my floor.  
  
When they arrived, I'd been in my office for five minutes or more. The first through the door was a little man, no more than five foot six. He was well dressed in a tailored light brown suit, dark brown suspenders, and a blinding white shirt with black buttons. His suspenders and shoes were black; his hat matched his suit. The outfit said money, and intended to. His face was made up of small, sharp features, cunning eyes gleaming. This was obviously the leader of the duo.  
  
His partner more than made up for the dapper dresser's diminutive size. He was half way between six and seven foot tall, but didn't share the fashion sense of his boss, or couldn't afford it. He was wearing a plain blue suit that showed signs of wear, and a sweat stained Stetson. He was only slightly taller than he was wide. Perhaps because he couldn't fit through the door, he remained standing outside.  
  
The little man marched up to my desk, and sneered at the surroundings. A fly strained through the dusty air in front of his face, and he grunted in disgust.  
  
"You Marlowe?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah, have a seat."  
  
He turned around, looked at the customer's chair, and grimaced. He swept off real or imaginary dust, and sat down. Good, I wanted to keep an eye on Goliath, who still hadn't entered. His broad, slightly daft looking face remained immobile. A glazed, impassive stare added to the not so sharp appearance.  
  
Davey stared at me for awhile, perhaps trying his hand at intimidation. I'd get worried when he grew a little. Grew a little gun out of his hand, that is, and even then, we'd have to talk about it.  
  
I took my pipe out of a drawer, and made preparations. I noticed that when my hand entered the drawer, Goliath made no movement. Maybe he was stupid.  
  
"I'd appreciate it if you were going to smoke, you'd open a window, Marlowe," Davey said.  
  
"If I open a window, the fly might get out," I said, grinning.  
  
"A funny guy, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, a funny guy. What is it you want?"  
  
He tapped his manicured fingers on the arm of my chair, and looked sideways at me. "Did you see a woman today, Marlowe?"  
  
"I've seen lots of women today," I said, puffing on my pipe. I decided to give the leer a rest, let him take it how he wanted it.  
  
"This one was very attractive, wearing a red dress and black hat. That ring any bells?"  
  
"I might hear a little tinkle," I said.  
  
"Listen shamus, I know you saw her. Quit hedging."  
  
"You know I saw her, why're you asking? Get to the point."  
  
"I want to know what was said. And you're going to tell me," he said.  
  
I laughed, coughing a cloud of blue smoke into his face, which did a passable imitation of a sunset.  
  
"George," said the little man. The big man's watery eyes turned to me for the first time, and his boss could've taken lessons from that stare. George obviously wasn't playing with a full deck. But I was made of sterner stuff than your average man, and managed not to melt to the floor in a heap of blubbering private eye. Tough guy, Marlowe.  
  
George turned sideways, ducked his head, and entered the room. He stepped to the back of his boss's chair, and continued to look at me. The fly lumbered past again, and George's hand snaked out in a blur of movement and crushed it, letting it fall to the floor. Guess it was okay to open the window now.  
  
"You'd be wise to show Mr. Chasen some respect," said George. Well, that answered the question of the little man's identity, but I was hardly interested in that. I was still wondering if I'd heard correctly. George's voice wasn't the deep bass you'd expect from such a large man, but the high pitched whine of an adolescent just entering puberty.  
  
"Shhh," I said, "did you guys hear a mouse? I'm going to have to have the place fumigated again." I grinned.  
  
"Don't let the sound of George's voice fool you, Marlowe. He's chopped bigger trees than you."  
  
"Yeah, he's the bogeyman of flies everywhere."  
  
George made a movement to come around the desk, but Chasen's outstretched hand stopped him. "Just a second, George. I'm going to give you one chance to tell me what was said at the meeting, Marlowe, and then George is going to have to start chopping."  
  
"George certainly has the stature for it, but the other lumberjacks might make fun of his voice," I said.  
  
Chasen looked at me with what might have been pity, and lowered his hand. George grinned, and started around the desk. His grin faltered when the Luger that had been sitting in my lap since before they arrived made an appearance. He stopped, and looked at Chasen for instructions. Chasen might've needed a little instruction himself; his face had turned red again, and a look of annoyance had entered his eyes.  
  
"You guys can get the hell out of here now," I said.  
  
Chasen got up stiffly, pushing the chair back. George moved back around the desk to rejoin his boss. I kept the gun on them as they moved toward the door. Chasen turned around, said "We'll meet again Marlowe, and next time, you're going to bleed."  
  
"Go on," I said, "and take your pet mouse with you."  
  
Chasen turned and walked angrily out the door. George gave me a last dose of the stare, and then followed his boss. I waited a few minutes, then got up and walked into the waiting room. I opened the door and looked into the hallway to see if they were laying for me. They were gone.  
  
I went back into my office, sat down, opened a desk drawer, and exchanged the gun for a bottle of dark liquid. I took a couple hits off the bottle, then replaced the bottle next to the gun.  
  
So, the lovely Mrs. Chasen had hired me without first telling her husband. It made me wonder what condition their marriage was in. And what was with the goon? Had he been hired because of the break-ins, or was he permanently on the payroll? Maybe Chasen had a Napoleon complex.  
  
I put on my shoulder holster, and inserted the Luger. As long as the drawer was open, I took out the bottle of whisky as well. I didn't have a holster for it, but I did have a pocket.  
  
Driving home, I stopped at a deli and picked up a ham sandwich. I ate it while mooning over my chessboard, trying to get the pieces to react with a modicum of intelligence. They were unwilling or unable. I turned in for the night.  
  
I was up with the dawn. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and if they didn't stop soon, I was going to take out my Luger and make a little music of my own. Too much whisky, and too little sleep, and you're ready to shoot some birds. Swell guy, Marlowe.  
  
I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and was in my car by quarter after seven. I took a long, circuitous route, threading the beast through alleys and side roads, and eventually ended up in the hills, with no one behind me. The houses got bigger and grander as I drove down the street, until I came to the Chasen residence. It was huge, but crude. Like a giant had thrown down a block of wood, and used his hand to chop it up into a house. Still, it had undeniable charm, and had cost more than I would make in my life.  
  
I drove around the concrete circular driveway, at the head of which two stone angels stood on marble pedestals, their hands stretched to heaven. As I came to a stop, the front fender crunched against the angel on the right, knocking it off its pedestal. It shattered on the concrete into a thousand fragments. I shut off the engine, got out, and walked around the car. The fender appeared to be O.K. I went to the door, knocked, and waited.  
  
A few minutes passed. A small Hispanic woman in a maid's uniform opened the door. She looked at me inquiringly. I handed her my card; one of the corners was bent, but I don't think she cared. She nodded, and swept the door open. As I walked past her, I noticed her looking outside at the fallen angel. She didn't comment, only closed the door.  
  
The maid turned, and walked down a large ornamented corridor. The ceiling appeared only slightly shorter than my building. Dark wood, white carpet, and large paintings with muted colors ruled the day.  
  
After a few miles, we came to a set of double doors, with brass handles. The maid opened the door to what appeared to be a lounge/den and stepped aside. I entered.  
  
Mrs. Chasen was sitting on a large, crimson, rounded sofa; her feet curled up under her. She was wearing a green silk dress. Her shoes sat on the floor in front of the sofa. There was a tall glass in her hand. The room was lit by several, strategically placed floor lamps. End tables stood to either side of the sofa; a large oak desk, immaculately clean, presided over one corner of the room. The east wall was lined with books, seemingly chosen for their bindings, not their content. Two plush green chairs stood a few feet in front of the red sofa. The north and south walls were green, the west red.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Chasen," I said.  
  
She gave me a look, and said, "Sit down Mr. Marlowe."  
  
I sat in one of the green chairs, and sank about a foot. She looked at me, and I looked back. She was as lovely as I'd remembered her. Her black hair hung loose, her green eyes luminescent. I was at the point of being hypnotized when she spoke.  
  
"My husband won't be joining us Mr. Marlowe. I believe you met him yesterday?" Her eyes said more than the words, almost an accusation.  
  
"Yes, I had the pleasure." My eyes did some talking of their own.  
  
"Antagonizing my husband would not be a good way to keep your job, Mr. Marlowe," she said.  
  
"No, but it sure is fun. Look, the man followed me to my office, then threatened me with his bruiser. I asked them politely to leave."  
  
"He said you pulled a gun on him," she said.  
  
"Only after he pulled a goon on me," I said. My razor sharp wit had no effect on her.  
  
"Let's forget about that for now, Marlowe. My husband has agreed to let you do your job, as long as you steer clear of him."  
  
"To be honest, I'm surprised he let you hire me, Mrs. Chasen."  
  
"Let me? Mr. Marlowe, this," she waved an all inclusive hand in the air, "this is all mine. I'm an heiress. My father left me this house, and all his assets. I love this house. Bernard, my husband, wants to move overseas, but that's preposterous. I have very fond memories of this house. It was almost a piece of my father. I say this to illustrate to you how horrifying and just.vile it is that someone has intruded on our life here. I want you to make it stop, Mr. Marlowe."  
  
Ideas began percolating at once. The money was Elaine Chasen's, not Bernard's. She saw what I was thinking though, and held up a hand. "No Mr. Marlowe. Even if that were possible, which it isn't, Bernard signed a pre-nuptial agreement. If I am murdered, or die under mysterious circumstances, he would get nothing."  
  
"Ah, trust," I said.  
  
She looked angry for a second, but it quickly subsided. "It was at the request of my father. Bernard and I married shortly before his death. My father never liked Bernard."  
  
"Imagine it," I said. She ignored me.  
  
"So, you'll have to conduct your investigation without Bernard's input."  
  
"It would really be best if I could talk with everyone in the household," I said.  
  
"I'm afraid that's out of the question, Mr. Marlowe. You upset Bernard greatly yesterday, and it would only cause further complications for you two to meet again. You'll have to get whatever information you need from me."  
  
"I hope it'll be enough, Mrs. Chasen, and I hope you're right about your husband."  
  
"My husband and I love each other, Mr. Marlowe. Rosita will show you to your room. When you've unpacked, come back and ask me any questions you wish." She took a little bell with a wooden handle off one of the end tables and gave it a little tinkle. The door opened at once, and Rosita walked in, a questioning look on her face.  
  
"Show Mr. Marlowe to his room, Rosita."  
  
Rosita nodded and backed out the door, waiting for me. Tipping my hat to Mrs. Chasen, I went out into the great hall. After I retrieved my bag from my car, Rosita showed me to my room. It was bigger than my whole apartment. The walls were powder blue, and burnt orange. A large canopied bed had its headboard backed against the east wall. There was a writing desk against the north wall, and a large bathroom. The carpet was white, and thick. A large light fixture depended from the ceiling, casting a sunny glow on the room. Three large windows, with white sheer curtains took up the west wall. I was half tempted to scribble some obscenities of my own, so as to conduct my investigation as long as possible.  
  
I thanked Rosita, and she nodded to me, backing out of the room. Maybe she was mute. I put the few articles of clothing I'd brought with me in the bureau, and my toiletries in the bathroom. I took off the holster and gun, laid them beside me on the other pillow as I lay down. The bed was infinitely comfortable. I looked around the room for an ashtray, didn't see one. There was some kind of objet d'art on the nightstand next to me. It was vaguely concave. It would do.  
  
I took out my cigarettes, cracked a wooden match on my thumbnail, lit up. Yeah, a guy could get used to this. I took a bottle out of my jacket pocket, took a swig. I felt myself relaxing a little too much, got up, stubbed out my cigarette in the artful object, walked to the door, and went out.  
  
Now I won't say I got lost, I rather like to think of it as reconnaissance. But one way or another, I ended up back at the lounge. Mrs. Chasen was looking decidedly impatient.  
  
"Where've you been, Mr. Marlowe? It's been an hour."  
  
"I was checking out the house, getting the lay of the land, so to speak," I said.  
  
"Whatever. Just steer clear of the east side of the house. That's Bernard's area," she said. "Ask me any questions that you like."  
  
"We should start by you telling me about each of the incidents in detail," I said. She did. They'd started off childish. Lamps tipped over, glasses shattered, furniture broken. Then they got a little weirder, a little more severe. Someone had defecated on the sofa(not the one she was sitting on, she assured me), some unidentified animal's blood was splashed on a painting, obscenities scrawled in sloppy hand on the wall. The last incident had been the dead cat on the mantle. She paled remembering it.  
  
"It was awful," she said, "Bernard had George bury it. George just pulled it off the mantle by the tail, swinging it like a lunch pail as he took it outside."  
  
"That brings up another question, Mrs. Chasen," I said. "Was George hired because of the break-ins?"  
  
"No, he's been with Bernard for a couple of years now. I don't like George, Mr. Marlowe, I'll make no bones about that. But Bernard feels he needs protection."  
  
"Is there any reason you know of that he would need protection?"  
  
"I honestly don't know. I tried to talk him out of hiring George when the issue first came up, but he wouldn't be moved on the subject."  
  
"O.K. Do you yourself have any enemies, Mrs. Chasen?"  
  
"Not that I know of. But wealth breeds jealousy. I suppose it's possible," she said.  
  
"I think that'll do for now Mrs. Chasen."  
  
"Well, if you have any more questions, just find Rosita, she'll let me know."  
  
"Thank you." I said. I got up to leave. Rosita appeared at the door, as if by magic. She led me back to my room, either because she doubted I'd remember where it was, or because she didn't want me wandering.  
  
I closed the door and locked it. I tossed my hat on the desk, got undressed, lay down on the bed, and lit a cigarette. I let various ideas filter through my mind as I smoked. They all came up zero. Bernard had nothing to gain by terrorizing his wife, at least nothing that I could think of. George was in Bernard's employ, therefore his motives were Bernard's. I suppose it could have been Rosita; desperate to communicate in some way, she had taken to vandalism. My mind got as far as Rosita squatting on a sofa, and then I discarded the idea. Or it could be some totally random fruitcake, who got off on vandalizing homes.  
  
I stubbed out my cigarette, and looked at my watch. It was noon. I got up, turned out the lights, and lay down on the bed. When I awoke it was nine. I waited three hours, smoking, drinking a little whisky, and thinking. When my watch read midnight, I got up, got dressed, and put on my holster and gun. I walked quietly toward the door, and listened. No sounds filtered through. I opened the door as silently as I could, and stepped out into the hallway. No one was visible. But then, not much else was either. The hallway was almost entirely dark. I turned out the light in my room, and stood in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. When they had, I walked down the hallway, careful not to bump into anything.  
  
I took the stairs to the ground floor, hooked a sharp right at the banister, another right as soon as my head could clear it without knocking my hat off, and then I was standing directly under the stairs, in darkest shadow. I stood there for three hours, not smoking, moving as little as possible. After three hours, I threw my hat down beside me, and sat down on the floor. When my watch read seven, I got up and went back to my room. I conducted my morning ablutions, waited an hour or so, and then exited my room, as though I had just awakened.  
  
I repeated this for three days. On each day, I saw only Mrs. Chasen, and Rosita. Bernard and George were no where to be seen. I wondered if they were still in the house. I was a good enough detective to see that Mrs. Chasen was getting agitated at my presence, though apparently not good enough to catch a petty vandal.  
  
But on the fourth day it paid off. I was standing beneath the stairs, my legs not quite aching enough to convince me to sit down, when I heard furtive movements coming from the den. I stepped quietly out of my hiding place, taking a moment to shake the kinks out of my legs, then walked to the double doors of the den. Light shown through the crack at the bottom of the doors.  
  
I put my hand on one of the brass handles, and turned it slowly. It wouldn't budge. The same result with the other handle. I stepped back a few paces, and then lunged at the door, slamming my shoulder where the doors met in the middle. The door burst open and I was blinded by the brightness of the light filled room. When I could see, I didn't want to. George was standing on a small step stool, with a mutilated dog in his big fist. It looked like a mongrel. It looked like he was trying, without much success, to tie it to the hanging light fixture when I burst into the room. He snarled when he saw me, though it came out a squeak.  
  
I was angry. The dead dog made my blood boil. It made me sick. George leapt gracefully off the stool, letting the dog fall to the floor. It landed with a wet thud. He walked quickly toward me, and I closed the short distance between us. I slammed my face into his large fist, but it didn't seem to faze him. I then leapt back, my head and shoulders and lower back crashing into an end table. It crumbled into kindling. Ha! Take that table, and there's more where that came from. George helped me to my feet, and I head butted his knee. This produced no effect on the man. He was iron.  
  
Just as George was helping me to my feet again, lovely chap that he was, Bernard and Elaine Chasen stepped through the door.  
  
"George!" Bernard said, "what in hell is going on here?"  
  
"I've caught your vandal, Mrs. Chasen," I said, stepping away from George. Blood dribbled down my lip onto my chin. Mrs. Chasen wasn't listening however, she'd caught sight of the dog's corpse on her lounge floor, blood soaking into the thick carpet. She was incredibly pale, and soon sank to her knees. Bernard knelt beside her, a look of great concern in his eyes. The love he felt for her was evident, and all thoughts of George's chicanery being at the request of Bernard left my mind.  
  
I shifted my eyes to George, his were locked on his boss. George looked none the worse for wear, considering the beating I'd given him. I slowly took my gun out of my holster, making sure George didn't see. I had a feeling things were going to turn ugly.  
  
"I'm okay. I'm okay, Bernie," Elaine Chasen mumbled. Bernard evidently took her at her word, because he was up in a flash, and taking large strides toward George.  
  
"What in the hell is the meaning of this?" he almost shrieked in George's downturned face.  
  
"But boss, you said you wanted to move out of this place. And Mrs. Chasen wouldn't let you. I was just trying to help you." The pleading tone in George's voice made him sound like more of an adolescent than ever.  
  
Bernard Chasen was speechless. He opened his mouth and closed it, did it again. The rage grew in his eyes, his face turned red. When what was bubbling up finally escaped his mouth, spittle flew from his lips.  
  
"You're fired!" he screamed. "Get the hell out of my house! You're a no good, stupid, buffoon. That dead dog has more brains that you. You're the biggest." George's hand flashed out and swatted Bernard Chasen like a pesky fly. Bernard flew over the couch, landing sprawled on his back, limbs akimbo.  
  
I raised my gun, and said, "That's enough George, let's call the police."  
  
George looked at me. There was no fear in his eyes, only pain and stupid rage. Didn't his boss want to move? Wasn't George supposed to help his boss? I could almost see the rusted cogs turning in George's fractured mind, looking for a way to hurt his former boss the most. When the idea hit, there was no light bulb, but a crafty look entered his stupid eyes. His face turned toward the kneeling Mrs. Chasen.  
  
"No, George," I said. He paid no attention. George began striding toward Mrs. Chasen. I tracked him with the gun. "I'll shoot you George."  
  
I don't even know if he heard me. But when I saw his tree trunk of a leg drawing back for a kick, I did just that. The back of his head caved in, Mrs. Chasen was showered in a rain of blood, and George fell face down on the floor in front of her. She took one glance at the back of George's head and passed out.  
  
Bernard Chasen was getting groggily to his feet behind the sofa. When his vision cleared he took in the scene in front of him. When he saw his wife sprawled on the floor he rushed to her side, kneeling beside her, cradling her head.  
  
"She only fainted," I said, "she'll be all right."  
  
Bernard looked up at me. There was gratitude in his eyes, and it made me sick to see it. This was as much his fault as it was George's. I'd had to kill a man because of this stupid bastard, and from the look in his eyes, it was almost as if he'd contracted me to do it. All of this, because little Bernard felt he needed protection; his wife's house stained, not just with blood, but with bad memories, his marriage more than likely on the rocks, his wife almost dead. Little Bernard, wanting to feel important, wanting to be the big man. Hell, you only had to look in George's eyes to see he wasn't all there, was on the edge. That had probably appealed to Little Bernard. He carefully laid his wife's head on the carpet and stepped over to me.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Marlowe, thank you so much," he said. He tried to shake my hand; I held my arm rigid.  
  
"Just give me my money."  
  
He blinked at me. Then said, "Of course, of course." He bustled over to the large desk in the corner, extracted a large wad of bills from a drawer, and rushed back, putting them in my hand. I counted out what was mine, let the rest drift to the floor. The bills were soon red with blood.  
  
I started out of the room. "Hey don't be sore, Marlowe. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault!" he called after me. I kept walking.  
  
I got my bags, and walked out the front door. As I stepped out onto the porch, I noticed that George wasn't the only new angel. The stone angel I'd smashed when I first arrived had been replaced with a fresh one. As I walked by, I kicked it off its pedestal. The sound it made when it shattered was like music. I got in my heap and drove away into the darkness. 


End file.
